


and cure your aching

by braille_upon_my_skin



Series: the world we're gonna make [3]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: M/M, Warnings for Period-Typical Racism, and Period-Typical Homophobia.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 15:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13616010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: "If he must entrust himself to anyone while in a state where his ability to look after himself is… dubious, Phillip knows that it would be the infamous P.T. Barnum."





	and cure your aching

**Author's Note:**

> The comments on my previous P.T./Phillip works have brought me immense joy, warming the ice-cold cockles of my withered little heart right up. You guys are all so sweet, and your feedback means the world to me. Thank you _so_ much for taking the time to leave a review! 
> 
> I've been dealing with a cold, this last week, or so, and wound up inflicting some of my misery on poor Phillip. Lucky for him that he has the world's greatest showman to look after him.

 

\---

 

"It's a mild cold," Phillip insists as Barnum steers him up the flight of stairs.

Barnum dismisses the comment like water rolling off of a duck's back. "I can't have my partner falling ill. That would be disastrous for all of us."

Suppressing a groan, Phillip flips through a mental checkbook of every time Barnum has made a decision or pulled a stunt that proved disastrous for everyone in his immediate vicinity. The urge to cough tickling at the back of his throat- and maybe a smidgen of sympathy- prevents him from cashing one of those checks, however, so he settles for rolling his eyes. "I think you're dramatizing the situation."

"And, I think you should be paying more mind to your health, Mr. Carlyle."

Words fail Phillip at that. He had taken great pains to conceal his coughing and occasional bouts of sneezing from the other members of the circus.

He should have known better. As she has proven _many_ a time, Anne Wheeler is _not_ one to be fooled.

Phillip felt her eyeing him knowingly as he took a brief intermission from his paperwork to observe the goings-on of the circus company. That knowing eye remained on him even after he looked away, feigning insouciance. Even as Anne soared over his head to perform graceful flips and dangle, fearless, from her legs.

Sure enough, word spread and, of all people, _Barnum, himself_ , elected to escort Phillip back to his accommodations.

Every protest and refusal fell on deaf ears. The man was _adamant_ on ensuring that Phillip get home to get some rest.

Phillip's apartment is on the sixth floor of a towering building that was erected in the late 1700s. It might have been grand in its day, but the structure is rife with creaking floorboards and walls spattered in peeling, chipping paint in various shades of ashen, pallid green.

Barnum's brows furrow, adding to the age-worn lines above the bridge of his nose as he takes this in, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

If Phillip can chance a moment of internal vulnerability, he would admit to himself that he _is_ tired. There is a fog over his mind, aches embedded deep in the tissue of his muscles, and a soreness to his throat that makes speaking more than necessary an ordeal. Further  wall-breaking introspection would find him confessing that he _earnestly_ _welcomes_ the presence of the man at his side- the steadfastness that carries Barnum forward, the sturdiness of his form as he all but offers himself as a pillar to lean on.

This is the man who risked his own life to carry Phillip from a blaze that engulfed the circus troupe, their _family_ 's former home, leaving it in ruins. He has provided Phillip with stability and foundation after Phillip was (further) disgraced and disowned by his previous high standing in the upper class.

He filled Phillip's life with _love_.

If he _must_ entrust himself to anyone while in a state where his ability to look after himself is… dubious, Phillip knows that it would be the infamous P.T. Barnum. And, he can take a small- _enormous_ , in actuality, but he'll be damned if he'll admit it out loud- measure of comfort in this fact.

He's just thankful that he isn't nursing a hangover on top of this _minor_ , especially in juxtaposition to being _stabbed_ , affliction. Lord only knows that Barnum would do nothing but exacerbate a throbbing migraine.

They pause at the door to Phillip's apartment and Phillip rights himself, fully prepared to bid his partner farewell and send him on his way to tend to his own affairs. "I appreciate your concern with the utmost sincerity," he starts, clapping a hand on Barnum's bicep as he tries to adopt a tender inflection. Charming comes easily enough to him, though he is no match for Barnum's ability to seduce and entice through speech, alone. But, the expression of softer, more profound sentiments has always proven difficult for him. The words never arrange themselves or flow quite right, catching in his throat like a pebble in a horse's shoe. "But, I can manage on my own from this point on--" The remainder of the assertion is swallowed up by an abrupt and _nasty_ coughing fit.

Shaking his head, Barnum tuts and says, "The key, Phillip."

Continuing to cough into the crook of his elbow- damn this minute ailment. It's reduced him to acting like an uncultured, uncivilized, uncouth… Phillip extracts the key to the apartment from the pocket of his waistcoat. Though, he closes his fingers over it, not quite ready to surrender it and pronounce that vulnerability externally. "Barnum, I've _got_ \--" Phlegm is dislodged from his lungs and fills his mouth, the taste of it bilious. He just barely resists the desire to expel it onto the floor.

He has had more than his fair share of rough nights after some, perhaps _overly_ -indulgent, tippling. Nights resulting in another markedly unpleasant bodily concoction rising from the recesses of a sickly tilting, and ultimately _upending_ stomach to paint floors, pavement, and any other surface that had the misfortune of being in the path of his debauched stagger toward the exit.

Adding another incident to the shameful collection is something that he has no desire to do. Especially not in front of Barnum. The man has already had to save him on two occasions too many, and is in no need of additional reason to fret over Phillip's welfare.

Wordlessly, Barnum takes the key from him. He twirls the ring on the end of his finger and catches the key in his palm, jamming it into the lock. Afterward, he makes a- _wholly unnecessary_ \- show of smoothly turning the knob and opening the door with a mere flick of the wrist, then retrieving the key in a flourish and slipping it into his pocket.

Through his coughing, Phillip's eyebrows elevate, and he is the now well-trod mixture of vexed and impressed that Barnum's antics tend to stir up.

Placing his hand on the small of Phillip's back, Barnum guides him into the front room. "You are damn near as stubborn as I am," he says, his words laced with laughter that sits somewhere between incredulous and affectionate.

The fit comes to a gracious end. Phillip looks to the older man with watering eyes. "Another embellishment," he manages at length, almost wincing at the rasping and creaking quality of his voice- not unlike the floorboards beneath their feet.

Barnum suddenly freezes, all traces of mirth and joviality wiped from his face, his body stiffening.

Phillip's eyes flit questioningly over the man's countenance. His mouth opens, preparing to inquire about the cause of this odd- even for a man who made a name for himself by showcasing an array of anomalies in the most grandiose and extravagant fashion he could dream up- behavior, when shadows flicker at the corner of his vision. He follows Barnum's gaze set dead in front of them, to find two figures looming ominously some five feet away.

His chest tightens and his stomach pitches as he gives name to these figures. "Mother," he christens the first. His eyes slide toward the second and halt in the blank space above its shoulder.

Sight is not necessary to identify the siphon draining all warmth from the room.

"Father." He swallows; a trial with a suddenly constricted throat.

The figure dubbed "Father"'s upper lip curls into something not far off from a sneer, and Phillip decides that _specters_ would be a more appropriate term.

"Phillip, darling-- " Mrs. Carlyle begins.

Mr. Carlyle cuts her off, his voice snide. "We thought we might try to talk some sense into you."

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle." Barnum's voice is a soothing balm on a stinging abrasion. He offers a hand to the couple, charismatic and winning smile in place. "Phineas Taylor Barnum, a pleasure to make your-- "

Phillip's father barely spares him a blistering second's glance before turning his full attention, and ire, on his son. "First you abscond to join up with a menagerie of _freaks_ , flaunt a relationship with a _colored_ woman, and disavow your inheritance."

Blood running cold, Phillip forces his eyes to the threadbare carpet spread across the apartment floor. His hands ball into fists where they hang, _rigid_ at his sides. "Father, this is hardly the time or place for-- "

Mr. Carlyle's voice rises to a snarl, contempt darkening his features, contorting them into something monstrous and unrecognizable as the face of the man Phillip once loved and admired.

Something that Phillip could not imagine wanting to be associated with _in any capacity_ , anymore.

"Now, you further shame and disgrace us by bringing this peddler of _perversion_ and _depravity_ back to your living quarters."

"Mr. Carlyle, I'm afraid you have a misunderstanding of the circumstance---"

"Let it be, Phineas," Phillip murmurs, silencing Barnum with a hand on his arm. As Barnum turns a puzzled stare on him, the edges of his brows upturned and hazel eyes swimming with countless queries and concerns, Phillip elucidates, his voice hardly more than a whisper, "I promise you it isn't worth the trouble."

Phillip can sense his mother looking from him to her husband- always idle, indecisive, waiting for Phillip's father to make important decisions so that she may follow his lead. "Ph-Phillip, dear," she ventures timorously, "what your father is trying to say is that we-- "

"What have you got to say for yourself?" Mr. Carlyle demands, his voice booming, almost deafening in the enclosed space.

_What does he have to say for himself?_

Phillip's mind absolutely _whirls_ with things that he could say.

Seething curses. A complete washing his hands of everything his parents and all of the provincial members of their _suffocatingly_ insular community stand for.

He could _shout_ at them for the sickening disparaging comments his father has made about Anne, about Barnum, about his _friends_ and _family_ while his mother stood silently by and did nothing.

He could tell them with a contemptuous smirk that this isn't the _first_ time he's brought the "peddler of perversion and depravity" back to his quarters, and it won't be the _last_. That he intends to become _intimately familiar_ with every inch of the ringmaster's skin, and will _more than happily_ allow Barnum's hands to chart his body in ways that a woman's hands never have. And, _never will_.

That he is every bit the _deviant_ , the _degenerate,_ and the _sodomite_ that so many men like himself and Barnum- unconventional men who never fit into the roles society casted them to play; men who carry themselves _differently_ , who live on the outskirts of the norm, perhaps defying it entirely; men who are a little _too_ passionate, a little _too queer_ \- are accused of being, courtesy of crude, defamatory remarks born from the mouths of busybodies and whispered into scandalmongering ears.

Malicious gossip that proliferates and poisons the thoughts of all who heed it, like a disease.

Scandal and hearsay that Phillip, himself, is the premiere subject of within the circles that originate it.

The circles that he somehow, to his own _horror_ and _revulsion_ , once found _enjoyment_ in being a part of.

Why, just to watch their faces turn ashen as the four walls surrounding them, he _could_ -

Another coughing fit erupts from Phillip, derailing his train of thought as it seizes him and makes him bend under its tyranny. This time, he is just able to retrieve his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his overcoat, and press it to his mouth.

His lungs are rattled by the onslaught. The vile, putrid tastes of phlegm and mucus perfuse his mouth anew.

He feels arms wrap around him to brace him, and lists, limp and weary, _relieved_ , into Barnum's solid frame.

"I think you should leave," Barnum intones, his voice uncharacteristically severe.

Phillip sneezes, having just enough mind about him to turn his face away from Barnum's clothing, and more coughs rack him. His throat feels scraped raw, and he, himself, positively wretched.

His mother makes a movement toward him, finally acting of her own accord, but it's too little, too late.

"What a _revolting_ display," Mr. Carlyle spits.

Between relentless hacks that threaten to turn his lungs inside out, Phillip meets his father's eyes and tells him, lowering his handkerchief to speak, "I said I wanted no part of your world." He works to clear his throat, but his voice is still hoarse and barely existent. He wishes there were more strength backing his words to really lend them the desired impact. Repeating himself might be a more challenging feat than he can manage in this condition. "I ask you to have no part of mine."

"This is just a phase- a silly, youthful whim and flight of fancy!" Mrs. Carlyle is scrambling frantically, and the flippancy with which she refers to his newfound purpose in life makes Phillip's stomach roil.

"Mother, please leave."

"You are a blemish on the legacy of our family."

Some time ago, before his parents regarded Anne as if she were beneath them, something _less than human_ , before his father spat appalling pejoratives at the man who saved Phillip's life, these words might have wounded Phillip.

Knowing that he has a new _family_ , _home_ , and _life_ completely divorced from these hateful people and their equally hateful worldview- divorced _and_ _liberated from_ \- they leave but the faintest and most superficial of marks. After everything else he has endured, he doesn't even _flinch_ as they score him..

"Mr. Carlyle," Barnum says, his tone sharper than Phillip has ever heard it, _scathing_ , "that wasn't a request. Respect your son's wishes and get out of his room."

After a weighty silence, the senior Carlyles begin to shuffle toward the door.

Phillip purposefully averts his eyes.

There is a tense moment as his father halts near Barnum, staring him down. Then, they're gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

"They're a delightful pair," Barnum comments as the sound of the Carlyles' footfalls fades down the hall. "I can see why you turned to drink."

Phillip attempts a bitter laugh, and is instead choked by another detestable phlegmy cough.

"To treat your own child with such hostility and callous disregard… " Barnum murmurs.

Phillip is uncertain if the words were intended for him, or not.

Barnum seems to shake off his brief foray into listlessness, regardless, and looks to Phillip, once more. "Now, off to bed with you," he declares, snatching the soiled handkerchief away and tossing it somewhere to land in a crumpled heap.

In another time, under different circumstances, this might have irked Phillip. He might have refused, saying, _I'm not one of your girls_. _I am fully capable of taking myself to bed_.

Right _now_ , under _these_ circumstances, he feels no annoyance and puts up no resistance. He is almost- no, he _is_ grateful for Barnum sweeping him into a bridal carry, one that he is actually fully conscious for and able to revel in. His face is close enough to Barnum's chest that the fragrance glazed on the older man's skin fills Phillip's chafed and reddened nose, providing fleeting relief.

Barnum lays Phillip gently upon his bed, and relieves him of his overcoat, scarf, shoes, belt, and waistcoat. He unknots and removes Phillip's necktie and readjusts the position of Phillip's legs to pull his bedsheets and duvet out from under him, all without direction.

Through the fog cloaking his thoughts, Phillip registers Barnum _tucking him in_ , as well, and laughs to himself at the absurdity of it. He asks, his tone more sardonic than he means for it to be, "Two children aren't enough for you to look after, I presume?"

Barnum stills before him. He fixes Phillip in an intent stare that increases the temperature of the room, causing a flush to descend over Phillip's body as his heartbeat stutters.

He instantly regrets his words.

"I've never thought of you as a _child_ , Phillip."

Phillip shivers, the assurance that he never thought he needed taking root at his core; a seed germinating in the pit of his stomach. He is, once more, at a loss for words, as he too often finds himself in the company of this man, and simply gapes, open-mouthed, for several seconds. A strained, "O- _Oh_ ," is the only noise he is able to get out.

Tripping over his own tongue- the supposed _ever-articulate wordsmith_.

Smoothing out the duvet, Barnum maneuvers to the head of the bed where Phillip sits, not quite resting, not _able_ to, against the pillows.

Phillip cannot help snuffling, pitifully, as he watches Barnum, his pulse erratic against his throat. Barnum leans in and he _radiates_ _heat_ \- a greatly wanted contrast from the chills rooted under Phillip's skin.

In a place only accessible when his mind is on the verge of leaving him, and good sense has already made its exeunt, Phillip wishes he could soak in that heat, bottle it to keep it close to him at all times. When Barnum has returned to Charity; when he is caught up in something and out of Phillip's reach; when a bottle or flask is calling to Phillip, beckoning, and he longs for the burn and subsequent hazy warmth coursing through his system enough to consider, _just this once_ ; when the bedsheets are cold on Phillip's skin and the bed, itself, feels much too empty. 

Their eyes are locked, the contact unbroken, and Phillip's chest _swells_.

Barnum murmurs, as serious as Phillip has ever heard him, "You are my equal. My _partner_. The most proficient and faithful one a man could ask for."

Phillip's breath shudders as he inhales. Everything feels thick, seeping, affected by the showman's words. By his _partner's_ presence. It's as though there is nothing else in the world. No other world but the one in this room, the one that he and Phineas Barnum have created for themselves.

His eyes flicker over Barnum's, memorizing the color of them- liquid amber tinged with flecks of gold bright as the sunrise- then close as he grazes the tip of nose against the older man's.

Barnum presses into the contact, all too briefly, then shifts out of reach. Phillip has no time to lament his absence, however, for the moment his eyes reopen, Barnum's lips are brushing against his hairline and trailing kisses from his cheekbone to his jaw and down his neck.

Phillip's heart pounds, so incredibly _full_ , each beat synchronized with the pulses of electricity that Barnum's mouth is sending surging through his veins.

The room several degrees hotter, the sound of Phillip's hurried, staccato breaths filling the air, Barnum stops at the collar of Phillip's shirt, pulling back after eliciting a low sound of yearning deep in Phillip's chest, to unfasten the first few buttons. His gaze is focused, the motion of his hands steady, precise, and _confident_ in his experience.

It makes Phillip's face flare. "Phin," he calls. His eyelids are heavy, his vision blurring. His tone is _pleading_.

A questioning hum issues from the older man.

"Would you… Will you…?" Forming sentences grows harder as mental cohesion begins to slip away. His heart beats against his breastbone with the message it intends to transmit, and Phillip opens his mouth to let that message reach its addressee, his walls breaking under the weight of his vulnerability, of his parents' disapproval, his _need_. " _Stay with me_."

Barnum glances up and meets Phillip's eyes with his own. They're soft, nearly glowing with tenderness.

As Phillip follows him through bleary eyes, Barnum shucks off his overcoat, removes his shoes, and sheds his waistcoat and tie, haphazardly discarding them in a pile on the bedroom floor alongside Phillip's garments. Then, he lifts the bedsheets and settles in beside Phillip, sealing the both of them in a cocoon. One of solitude. One of intimacy, comfort, and security, miles away from Phillip's parents, intolerance, and unhappiness.

Barnum's arms wrap around him and Phillip promptly nestles into the man's chest. He temporarily banishes all toxins from his body in one long, heavy sigh. "It appears you have quite the track record when it comes to making first impressions on your partners' fathers," he says, his eyes falling _blissfully_ closed.

"That's a superb title I can add to my ever-growing list," Barnum says with a laugh. "'P.T. Barnum: Conman, Peddler of Depravities, and Maker of Excellent First Impressions on His Partners' Fathers'."

Phillip laughs, as well, genuinely, without any bite, and pushes his face into Barnum's shirt. It smells of his cologne, and freshly laundered linen, and something distinctly _Phineas Taylor Barnum_ that Phillip will never get enough of. He draws in a breath and murmurs sincerely, "I am profoundly sorry you had to bear witness to that."

He feels Barnum shaking his head in silent objection. "Phillip, your parents should be the ones apologizing to _you._ Their hate and narrow-mindedness is costing them a relationship with an incredible young man."

Phillip's heart is still beating too fast, Barnum's words swirling about his head until it spins. Yet… he feels _at ease_. And, as he listens to Barnum's heartbeat, its own pace rapid, just a touch off-kilter, but calming and analgesic as always, he feels _whole_ , _complete_ , as well. "Thank you," he says softly. "For so _many_ things."

Barnum's response is to silently rest his chin on top of Phillip's head and tighten the embrace.

With a final prolonged sigh, Phillip drifts off to sleep.

When he awakens, some time later, disoriented, unable to breathe, and his shirt sticking to his sweat-slicked skin, Phillip's heart pounds, reverberating in the hollow cavity of his chest with _fear_ that he is back in the heart of the fire, trapped under flaming debris.

His eyes land on Barnum, right there beside him, sound asleep with eyes closed, lips parted slightly, and chest rising and falling gently, and the fear is swiftly allayed.

It's rare to see Barnum like this, he notes. _Peaceful_ \- not full to the bursting point with wild ideas, facing a constant barrage of criticism with a never-waning smile, and shouldering responsibility for not one, but _two_ families.

Phillip stares at him for a long moment, committing to memory the slopes and contours of Barnum's face, the arch of his eyebrows, the shadows his faintly fluttering eyelashes cast on his cheeks, the curls in his hair. He thinks of the terms his inner playwright might use to describe these features in resplendent but not overly excessive detail.

But, _No words in the English language can_ truly _do Phineas Barnum justice_ , he concedes.

The light outside the window is fading, and he has nowhere of importance to be, so Phillip shifts back into a comfortable position against the man he owes his life to, the man he is certain he _loves_ , and descends into a peaceful slumber. He drapes his arm over Barnum's torso to keep him safe from all that troubles him for a while longer, just as Barnum has done, and will no doubt _continue_ to do for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
